Wings Of Darkness, Wings Of Light
by Let'sSaveTheUniverse
Summary: SuperWhoLock. In which Sherlock is more different than anyone suspects, even him. Featuring sundry horrible monsters and unsavoury government types, angels, evil angel statues, suave demons, aliens in bow ties, lots of hunters, at least two detectives, and the Devil. Oh, and time travel. And paradoxical timey-wimey stuff. R&R?
1. Prologue

**A/N – **Diverges from Supernatural canon after s5e01. Sherlock is somewhere between Hounds and Moriarty, and Doctor Who is between s6e11 and e13. Enjoy!

**Near London **

**July 1983**

When he manifests himself on Earth, Azazel doesn't waste any time. He's not picky about his meat suits. It hurts, dragging the dark smoke of his incorporeal form through the fire and the night and into the hard shining physical world, and the moment he appears he pounces. The man – middle-aged, muscular, short greying hair – doesn't notice a thing amiss before Azazel is down his throat and into his mind. He takes a moment, sparking synapses, stretching limbs, exploring neural networks and complex, fragile tissues. Human bodies are such complicated things, and he's been Downstairs for so long that he's out of practice. He's quietly impressed by the struggle the man puts up, bawling and raging in a corner of the subconscious, battering vainly at Azazel's defences. He listens for a brief interval, amused, before burning the remnants of the man's personality out of his brain. If all goes to plan, he'll be on Earth for a good while. He'll need a reliable, docile vehicle.

Ah, yes. The plan. Whose plan, he isn't certain. Above his pay grade, and that's saying something. Demons, for all their chaos and hatred, set a lot of store by rank. Nevertheless, Azazel can't help feeling misgivings. There's something big here. Tonight's little drama is only a part of it, a single element of a far older and infinitely more intricate strategy. It's beyond Azazel's comprehension, and it makes him uncomfortable.

But orders are orders, he reminds himself. And he really doesn't want to find himself on the eternal torment list. So he finds the little pocket of space where he stashed the knife and the hip flask, and untwists reality just enough to allow him to reach in without simultaneously stretching and compressing the matter of his meat suit to an infinite degree. Physical bodies do have their disadvantages.

The hole closes with a somewhat incongruous popping sound, and the knife and flask are in his hands. Azazel allows himself to enjoy the sensations: the deep crackling hum of Enochian warding magic; the minuscule crystalline grain of the metal; the lingering smell of sulphur and ozone. Humans really don't know how lucky they are...

Azazel focuses. Things to do. Worlds to change.

His first stop is in England, a manor house in the country quite close to London. A child's bedroom. All dark wood panelling and antique furniture. It has an austere, unfriendly feel to it, not what one might expect of a baby's room. Not that Azazel has any idea, of course.

He crosses the room and stands over the baby in its cot, something predatory in his gaze and stance. The creature is small and thin-boned, with pale eyes and a few strands of dark hair. It stirs and whimpers as it becomes aware of Azazel's presence. He holds the flask gingerly, as if the contents might burn him. Who knows? Nothing remotely like this has ever been attempted.

Azazel unscrews the cap and tilts the flask slightly. The Enochian symbols flare up blue. A single drop of blood swells and shivers, about to fall.

Outside, clear and sharp to the demon's keen senses, there's a scrape and a low curse. Azazel goes very still, before turning and prowling over to the window. He throws it wide and leans out into the night air. He looks left and right, across the lawn. His gaze skates over... something, a space that doesn't want to be seen or noticed.

And the next moment, he's forgotten it completely.

Azazel frowns. Something niggling, an itch in his meat suit's primitive mind. He's missing something. Something important. It's not a good feeling. He shifts slightly, thinking of hunters. They'll have moved on since his last visit to this cold rock, back in the 1800s. Samuel Colt. That hadn't been a pleasant encounter.

The demon jerks his head impatiently and switches his attention back to the task at hand. No more interruptions. Get the job done. He strides back to the cot, to the baby. The weapon, one day. He watches it for a moment, then – finally – lets a few drops of blood from the flask fall. The Enochian symbols blaze, protecting him from the Grace still lingering in the blood. A small pointed tongue comes out and licks at the dark sticky liquid. Azazel is almost surprised – he had been expecting... a flare of white light, or fire, or _something. _But the baby shifts slightly and slips into a deeper sleep, angel blood congealing at the corner of its mouth. Angel blood. Whose idea had that been anyway?

Almost done. Azazel seals the flask and tucks it away inside his meat suit's jacket, before producing the knife. He nicks his inside forearm with the blade and lets a trickle of his own blood fall, thick with darkness roiling like smoke. The baby screws up its face at the unpleasant taste, but laps the stuff up anyway.

Azazel nods with satisfaction and, to any human observer, simply vanishes. A watcher with keener senses would have seen huge wings of pure shadow unfurl and beat. Both demons and angels have wings and use them, although they exist on a plane of reality incomprehensible to all but the most powerful of creatures. So angels and demons do fly, but in the mundane dimension visible to humans, they simply appear and disappear with a flutter of unseen wings.

Azazel leaves. Next stop: Lawrence, Kansas.

**A/N – **This was a bit short, I know... later chapters will be longer, I promise. Reviews are love?


	2. Blood

**A/N – **Sorry for the slow update. I am really not happy with this chapter. At all. And I planned for much more to happen, but it wasn't working out. So basically there'll be more chapters than I intended.

**Central London**

**May 2009**

_Across the city, lights go out one by one. In the real city, it's never truly dark. The sky is too bright with city glow, street lights and traffic and houses and office buildings reflecting off the ever-present haze of air pollution. But for Sherlock Holmes, in the London of his dreams and nightmares, it's **always** dark. Tonight, his dreams are strange and uncomfortable, the shifting streets filled with whispers and shadows. And gradually, they begin to take the shape of a memory._

_It's late. He's at a crime scene, a familiar one. The empty house, the woman in pink. The first case he had John with him. Only this time, it's different – the woman is dressed all in red, bright and bloody. The dusty floorboards, the peeling wallpaper seem drab and colourless in comparison. A faint sound, and Sherlock lifts his head. John._

"_Hello, Sherlock."_

"_John?" A crease appears between Sherlock's eyebrows. "What are you doing here?"_

_John shrugs. It's a curious movement, fluid and feline and fundamentally un-John-like. It turns Sherlock cold._

"_I'm not here. Not yet, anyway." His eyes are wrong. Not that warm, friendly brown, but clear-sky-grey-blue. Cold and bright and strong. "But I'm coming. You'll see me quite soon, Sherlock."_

_Sherlock feels his gaze dragged downwards. The colour is leeching out of the woman's clothing, pooling and spreading, drawing out into curves. Quite a deliberate shape, and now there's light. Blinding white. Sherlock averts his eyes. Fear. Yes. He's afraid, and he doesn't know why. All he knows is the terrible, irrational, certainty that he's in danger._

_In that curious way of dreams, the scene changes without transition and he's somewhere else. An underground station, familiar and alien at the same time. His breath comes in plumes of frost. The lighting is strange; a pure, distant white. Cold, but burning._

"_Most people think I burn hot."_

_It's John's voice, but different. Low and velvet-smooth, layered with power. Yes, there's power there, but it's restrained, distanced. Like the light. Starlight. Almost like it's imprisoned._

_The platform cracks. Red bubbles up, running over the concrete. Smoothly flowing into a crooked spiral. And then, abruptly, blazing light stabs up from the centre of the circle._

_In the dream, Sherlock can sense the light, the voice, the **presence**_, _coming closer. A high, thin humming reverberates through the dream, the air trembling-_

Sherlock jolts awake, gasping. The dream splinters and fades, leaving only a deep, cold dread. Something about John? Was that important? He drops back onto the pillow, already sinking back into sleep.

The display on the digital clock beside the bed flicks over to 06:01. Half a world away, it has just turned midnight.

A group of teenagers are waiting on a street corner. The sun has yet to rise, and the harsh glow of the sodium lamp overhead lends an unearthly cast to their features. But then, predators have to blend in. Only a very small number of people would pick up on the details – the strange way the street lights gleam in their eyes, the lazy, controlled grace of their movements – and an even smaller minority would know what it means, and why they should be running.

A bus draws up. Light spills out onto the street, accompanied by the rich, heavy smell of meat. Several people on their way to work. A young couple, smelling of perfume and aftershave and pheromones, and a man dressed in elegant black.

Moving as a pack, perfectly synchronised, the creatures on the street corner set off. The couple would be their usual target – more food – but there's something different about the man. Something in his scent that the pack haven't encountered before. And he's in a hurry, which is always useful. He won't notice the pack tailing him until it's far, far too late.

The pack leader, a scruffy dyed-blonde girl in a hoodie, inhales. The scent of his blood is rich and dark. Enticing. She's so focused on it that she doesn't register the other scent – sulphur, along with a heavy animal musk.

The man, the strange-smelling prey, rounds a corner and stops. He glances about. Dead end. The girl smiles, and the jagged, glass-sharp teeth of a monster fill her mouth.

Got you.

They don't see the man's satisfied little smile, or notice him lifting two fingers to his mouth to whistle. At least, not until it's too late to run.

Blood. The smell of it hangs in the air like smoke. Iron and salt and fear. It's everywhere, puddled between bins and sacks of rubbish, splashed up the walls. Greg Lestrade lowers his head and breathes, fighting back nausea. He'll never get used to it. But then, he doubts any hunter is used to all this, to the life. Not really.

Actually, that's a _lot_ of blood. Far too much for the three bodies. And that's the just the first little mystery. The whole crime scene is wrong. Under the weak, greyish sunlight, the blood looks black and out of place. It doesn't seem real.

Lestrade grinds the heels of his hands into his eyes in the hope that it might make them less tired. He was at the Yard past midnight last night, looking over some cold case files. That's nothing unusual. He always finds it difficult to let go of a case. Determined to find that one last vital clue. And sometimes he does. Sometimes he finds that detail that leads to something more: murder victims with hearts removed; holes bored through into victims' brains. That wraith at Pentonville Prison. Not fun.

Lestrade mentally shakes himself. All right. Facts. Three bodies. The two recognisable ones are young and female, each with a gunshot wound in the centre of the forehead. Two bullets. Simple enough. Except – he kneels to take a closer look – the area around the wound appears to be... what? Charred? Blistered? Lestrade shakes his head slowly, so wrapped up in his thoughts that he doesn't even realise he's doing it.

The third body is tossed a little way from the others. It has been comprehensively torn apart. Deep, ragged tears and bite marks. Bones splintered as easily as dry twigs. Lestrade feels a tug of fear in the pit of his stomach. What the hell could do something like that?

He hears a faint gasp and immediately tenses, hunter's instincts telling him to move _now, _something's coming-

It's Sergeant Donovan, with Sherlock and John in tow. Lestrade vaguely realises that Sherlock is actually wearing one of the shapeless blue clean suits. Donovan hurries back around the corner. Lestrade hears her retching.

"Oh god." John is the first to speak, voice low and ragged. "What- what the hell-"

"Yeah," Lestrade says grimly. "Not a pretty sight, I know. Sherlock?"

Sherlock is perfectly still, taking in every minute detail of the scene. "I hope you realise there's too much blood here, Lestrade."

"Yeah, that's about the only thing we _have_ got."

Sherlock pads forward, intense gaze sweeping over the bodies. "Assailant used small calibre bullets." He drops down, stretching latex gloves over his hands. It takes a moment of foraging to produce the bullet. "Antique revolver, probably. Hard to trace." He drops the misshapen lump of metal into an evidence bag and tosses it to Lestrade.

"What about the wound?" Lestrade asks.

"Not sure yet," he murmurs. "John, you should take a look."

John looks distinctly uncomfortable at the prospect, but moves to examine the body anyway. "Looks like... electrical burns, maybe? Hard to tell with all the- you know- " He tails off.

"Mess," supplies Lestrade.

Sherlock crosses to the mutilated third body. Lestrade watches as he examines each laceration under a magnifying glass. Then he stands, gaze tracking through the gore and messiness. He walks slowly, picking out clues and details, making connections Lestrade can't hope to follow.

"The killer was here first. Waiting. A group of people followed him."

"How do you know?"

"Footprints."

John and Lestrade are wearing identical expressions of confusion. Sherlock rolls his eyes. "The only prints in the blood lead out of the alley. Here; this was the killer." Rusty, barely-there tracks lead a little way from the alley mouth before fading. "Judging by the length of his pace, he wasn't particularly tall. Expensive, good quality shoes. He was probably dressed smartly. Now look at the wall there." There's a smear of blood at the the corner where the side-street joins the road. "There's blood low down, and different prints overlapping."

Lestrade cottons on. "You mean – someone escaped?"

"Exactly. Two of them, one supporting the other. One-" he indicates the blood on the wall- "fell, and was lifted by the other. You can see the single footprints here are closer together-"

"Because they were carrying something heavy." John finishes.

"Well done, John." For a brief moment, a spark of admiration shows in Sherlock's eyes. "Now, the third body. What do you make of it?"

Lestrade shrugs helplessly. "Animal attack?" He's thinking a Black Dog, but that doesn't fit with the poor sods who got shot.

"A possibility. But judging by the scale of the lacerations, it would have to have been an animal larger than a bear. I think it's more likely that this was done by a human and cleverly disguised as an animal attack."

John glances from the body to Sherlock. "But why? Why make it look like he was attacked by something bigger than a bear?"

Sherlock frowns slightly. "A miscalculation, perhaps. But it doesn't make _sense._" He goes quiet and pensive. Lestrade and John exchange worried glances. They've only ever seen Sherlock baffled once before, and that was when Mycroft was involved. But then, Lestrade supposes, Sherlock would never even consider the possibility that a horrible monster ripped someone up in the middle of London.

"I'll have the homeless network looking out for the survivors. Come on, John." Sherlock leaves, coat billowing. John shrugs slightly and follows, with an awkward little wave at Lestrade. He shakes his head. He's certain Sherlock only wears that coat to be dramatic.

"Donovan!" He hurries back into the street. She's arguing with Anderson about something. They both shut up as Lestrade approaches. "I want you to get in touch with hospitals, see if anyone's been admitted in the last five hours with gunshot wounds or - or anything like what's back there."

Donovan nods, all crisp efficiency. "On it, sir."

"Good. I'm going to stay here for a bit longer. Just..." he hesitates. "Checking a few things."

Donovan raises an eyebrow but doesn't comment. "What about the freak?"

Lestrade looks down, unable to quite meet her gaze. "He... left."

"He _always_ leaves. Sir, you can't-"

"Just-" Lestrade wearily passes a hand over his eyes. "Just go and track down the survivors, ok?"

"Yes, sir. But I still think-"

"Get on with it!"

Donovan leaves without another word. A small part of Lestrade is guilty for shouting. It's the same small part that knows he can't rely on Sherlock, that he probably can't be trusted.

No. Don't think about that now. Concentrate on the job.

A couple of scene-of-crime officers are still clearing up, but they pay no attention to Lestrade as he drops to one knee to examine the closest body. The girl's mouth has fallen open slightly. Streaks of blood are crusted to the side of her face, starkly contrasting with pale, chilled skin.

Wait. Something off, something... Lestrade tilts his head, trying to place it. He rolls up an eyelid. No slitted pupils, nothing to suggest she isn't human. Then, tentatively, he lifts the girl's upper lip.

Not good.

The vampire's teeth haven't fully descended, milk-white points just showing through a series of slits in the gum. Well, Lestrade tells himself, now it gets interesting. Because vamps don't die if you shoot them in the head.

So what the hell is going on here?

**A/N – **Reviews are still love? *hides*


	3. Stone & Shadow

**A/N – **I'm sorry for the ridiculously slow update. Life happened, rather chaotically and all at once. Also. I completely freaked myself out writing this. Probably listening to the music from those episodes of Doctor Who _in the dark_ while writing probably didn't help. But you get a nice long chapter with the Winchesters, so it's all good. Oh, and I made a few minor edits to previous chapters.

**UNIT Maximum Security Containment Facility, Nevada**

**Date not applicable**

The silence. The silence is a physical pain, an absence that gnaws at him without relent.

He moves suddenly, shifting against the restraints until a padded strap is cutting into his neck. The curious double rhythm of his heartbeat reverberates through his skull.

_Thud thud thud thud._

_Thud thud thud thud._

Sometimes, it almost fills the silence.

_Thud thud thud thud._

The cell is impressive. Even he admits it. The walls are metres thick, constructed of layers of dwarf star alloy and gravity-condensed steel. It is a perfect prison. Time, within its walls, is at a standstill. Nothing leaves; nothing enters.

Except... he lifts his head. In his peripheral vision, he can see someone watching him.

"Who are you?" After so long without speaking, his voice is low and harsh. Animalistic.

The being walks slowly across his line of sight. It isn't human. Its scent is overlaid with ozone and frost and blood. When it speaks, its voice echoes in the prisoner's mind for longer than it should.

"I am an angel."

The prisoner – he doesn't use his name any more, not his true name or his taken name – laughs, long and loud and feral. "I don't believe in angels."

"Nevertheless. Here I am."

"Why?"

Its voice is compassionate. "I could help you. I could give you your revenge."

The prisoner tilts his head. There's another meaning behind the words. The angel is cunning – not a liar, he can tell, but a manipulator. "What do you want from me?"

It walks towards him. For a heartbeat, the prisoner sees its wings, outlined against the wall of the cell. Slowly, the angel reaches out, and the prisoner can sense its consciousness reaching out too, a cold ancient _vastness_, utterly different to any mind he has ever encountered.

The angel's fingers brush his forehead and then, quite suddenly, he sees.

It comes in a series of juddering snapshots. Images of humans tearing each other apart. War, vicious and close and bloody. Survivors starving and hunted. The world burning.

And the prisoner smiles. "I know you," he whispers, voice full of animal glee. "I know your _name._"

The angel smiles. A benevolent smile, as of a parent to a child. Or perhaps that of a predator to its prey.

"What do you want me to do?"

Lucifer shows him, and he smiles.

**Sioux Falls, South Dakota**

**May 2009**

It's a couple of days since the Devil got out of the box and the world ended. Since Sam ended the world. Dean can't help but think of it like that. He trusted a demon. A goddamn _demon, _Sammy,over your own brother. And now Bobby's in a wheelchair and oh yeah, it's the freakin' _Apocalypse._

And it's Sam's fault.

Dean's fault, too. If he'd been stronger. If he hadn't given in to Alistair in Hell. If Dad hadn't sold his soul for him. If Azazel hadn't killed his Mom, all those years ago.

If he'd taken better care of Sammy.

Looking back, he can see his whole life has been leading up to that moment in the church when the first drop of Lilith's blood hit the cold stone floor. Every action, however small, bringing them a step closer to Lucifer. From the moment Mary died, this is where he's been headed. And now they're going to have to fight, and Dean is afraid. More afraid than he's ever been in his life. Because how can he fight destiny?

Well, he's going to try. He's going to kill the Devil and save the world, because that's who he is. He looks sidelong at Sam, seeing the guilt sloping his shoulders and turning his eyes to the ground. He made a promise to protect his brother, once. And maybe he's done a piss-poor job of it so far, but that doesn't mean he's going to stop.

For Sammy, he'll kill the Devil. Or maybe die trying.

"You two just gonna sit there gawkin'?" Bobby's voice is gruff and irritated. He's turned away from them, glaring resolutely out of the window. Being in hospital doesn't agree with hunters.

"Sorry Bobby." Sam is quick to apologise. Dean can tell he's trying to apologise for everything. For Ruby and Lucifer and the end of the world. "It's just... what are we supposed to do now?"

"Nothin'," Bobby snaps. "There's nothin' we _can _do, ok?"

"So, what, we're just supposed to sit here and wait for the end?" Dean stands quickly. "Just let those sons of bitches rip the world apart?" It's _wrong _to see Bobby like this, ready to give up before it's even begun, and all it does is make Dean angry. And more determined.

"Well, do you have any better ideas, _boy_?"

"Yeah, actually. How 'bout we don't let them control us?"

"You mean – fight?" Sam lifts his head and just for a moment a spark of hope show in his eyes.

"Yeah, I mean fight." Dean feels like he should say something more, but he's never been much good at motivational speeches.

Sam shrugs. "Well, this is our mess. I guess we should clean it up."

"'Mess' is an understatement," Bobby grumbles in an undertone.

Dean glances at him. "You in or not?"

We can't do it without you, Bobby," Sam puts in.

"Yeah, of course I'm in, y'idjits," he mutters. "Just, it's hard to have much faith in anythin' after an angel's put you in a wheelchair."

Sam looks relieved. "We understand."

There's a pause. Dean fills it. "So where do we start?" He starts to feel something under his ribs, that heady mix of excitement and anticipation and fear that he feels at the start of a hunt.

"Omens? Demonic omens, stuff from the Book of Revelation, I guess," suggests Sam. "We can have other hunters looking out for anything..."

"Apocalyptic." Dean says it at the same moment Sam does.

"Yeah." Sam's voice is resigned, but determined too.

Bobby looks up. "And when you actually _find _Lucifer? What're you goin' to do, stick a knife in him?"

"Well... what kills angels?" Sam doesn't look quite as hopeful as he did a moment ago.

"The Colt?" Dean shrugs.

"Okay. We should track down the Colt." Sam nods. "Which... is probably easier said than done."

"But it's a chance," says Dean. And if he starts to think that maybe this isn't so hopeless, well, who can blame him?

In another part of the hospital, Sheriff Jody Mills is getting annoyed. "Two of your patients have disappeared in the last twelve hours and you don't think there's anything odd about that?"

The receptionist - a fair-haired, dark-suited man with an English accent – makes a placatory gesture. "People check themselves out all the time. It's nothing to worry about. Now," he grins (and Jody doesn't like the the way he's looking at her, almost _feral_), "Why don't you go and find a crime to investigate?"

Jody leans over the counter. "I already have. So don't get smart with me."

The receptionist looks affronted. "I intended nothing of the sort, I assure you." There's a mocking tone in his voice that Jody does her best to ignore.

"Good. Now show me the files of those two patients."

He adopts a mock-apologetic expression. "I can't leave here, I'm afraid. But..." He draws out the word, making a ridiculous face around it. "You could look yourself. The files are kept down in the basement."

Jody grits her teeth and forces herself to stay calm. "All right. Where do I have to go?"

He rattles off a list of directions, and Jody leaves with some relief. She doesn't see him take something bronze out of his jacket, and she doesn't hear the high buzzing. Doesn't see the red glow. Even if she had, it wouldn't have meant anything to her.

Down in a clunky, ageing elevator, and the basement is startlingly cold, a stark, unsettling contrast to the warmth and light of the hospital. Her breath comes in plumes of white. Rows of filing cabinets stretch away into dusty, cobweb-filled shadows. Jody feels the wall beside the door. Light switch, excellent. She flicks it and rows of strip lights stutter into life.

Now... Jess McLeod was the first, in hospital with a broken leg and in no state to be going anywhere, according to her doctor, whom Jody had the foresight to interview earlier. She walks along the nearest row. Faded labels display the letter for each cabinet. J, K, L... M. There. The metal is dented and rusty, and it takes a few solid tugs to open the drawer.

Which turns out to be empty. Jody frowns and tries the next drawer down. Also empty, except for a dead bee.

"Great," she mutters. "Screwed over by the creepy receptionist." She turns and heads back towards the stairs. She is going to have _words _with that guy (and there was something in his voice, something sly, twisting things to make her believe them, and now she realises that hospital records are computerised, of _course _they are).

Somewhere behind her, there's a sharp clatter. She blinks.

"Hello? Someone there?"

No reply. But she hears a dry scrape and there's _definitely_ someone back there. Hairs rise on the back of her neck. (And what if it's a trap, what if he _sent _her down here-) Her deepest instincts are telling her to leave, get the hell out of here-

She pads forward and peers round the end of the row.

"Ok," she says slowly to herself. "Because that's not creepy."

It's a statue. Standing as if it's always been there. A stone angel, one arm across its face. The other is extended. Pointing somewhere past Jody.

(Who would put an angel statue in a hospital basement? Looks like it should be in a graveyard-)

The lights flicker, plunging her into darkness for a moment.

And the statue has moved. She's _certain. _It's turned a little, arm slightly away from its face. And suddenly, Jody _really _doesn't want to see what its face looks like. She turns and hurries back toward the elevator, and the bright sensible normal world of the hospital above. (And she _really _wishes she hadn't thought anything about graveyards-)

She glances back, just to check-

And screams. Because it _did _move, however impossible, and now it's right behind her. Face carved into a ferocious, hungry snarl, mouth far too wide open, all wrinkles and shark-like teeth, blank sightless eyes fixed on her-

(Please. Please. Please don't let it get me.)

She hasn't believed in God since she was a little girl. But now she finds herself praying out of sheer terror, something from the past rising to the surface of her mind, as her hand creeps along the wall beside her, searching for the button to call the elevator.

"Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle," she whispers, a sob in her voice. There's a movement in the corner of her eye – there's _another one_, another angel_ –_ she's going to die, she's going to die here. "Be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the Devil."

Her fingers brush something cold and smooth. She stabs at the button gratefully, not daring to tear her gaze from the angels (and how ironic that she's praying to an _archangel_).

"May God rebuke him, we humbly pray; and do Thou, O Prince of the Heavenly Host-" and the second one has moved, it's pointing at the ceiling- "by the Divine Power of God-" and the lights are going out, it's _turning out the lights- _"cast into Hell Satan and all the evil spirits that roam the world seeking the ruin of souls."

The lights are flickering and dying and every time they come back up the creatures are closer-

A single tear slides down her cheek as she says the last word of the prayer-

"Amen."

And the elevator door slides open.

Jody stumbles in gratefully, and as the door closes again she hears a sound that will haunt her nightmares. It's a high screeching, like claws on glass, (stone claws, snatching at the back of her coat) and it's _terrifying. _But she's safe, she's away, and now the only thought in her head is to find Bobby Singer. He'll know what to do. He fights monsters for a _living._ He'll know what to do. Surely.

Sam has gone down to the lobby to grab some snacks for the impromptu council of war in Bobby's room. Planning a campaign against all the forces of Hell is thirsty work, he observes wryly. Especially when you've got three people who even _know _there's a war on.

"Sam!"

He glances up, startled. He's even more startled when he recognises Jody Mills, Sheriff of Sioux Falls.

"Sheriff Mills, right?" She looks a _mess_, dusty and trembling.

"Sam," she says, and he can hear the leaden terror in her voice. "There are monsters in the basement."

"_What_? What do they look like?"

She closes her eyes and doesn't reply.

"Jody." Sam ducks a little to her eye level. "You have to stay calm. Tell me what they looked like."

'It's... sorry," she mutters. "It wasn't fun."

"It's ok. I understand. But you have to tell me what you saw. It's really important."

"They were..." she hesitates. "They were angels."

Sam blinks. "Angels." But angels just look like normal people, don't they? So what-?

"Not like _angels. _They were statues. And they moved. Whenever I looked away." Her voice is starting to shake again. "Sam, I _swear-_"

"It's all right. I believe you."

"Well, good," she says. "Glad I didn't go through all that for nothing." She sounds a little more composed now, but it's not lost on Sam that she's still terrified. He's comforted enough victims. Hell, been one himself more often than he'd like.

"So... these angel statues... attacked you?"

"Yeah. All teeth and claws and screechy noises."

Something occurs to Sam. "Hey, how come you were down in the basement, anyways?"

"Couple of patients have gone missing since Friday. I was looking for their records."

Well, that makes even less sense. And Friday? Lucifer popped his box at midnight on Thursday. Overall, not looking promising. At all.

"Patient records are stored on computers."

She hesitates. "Yeah, I know. It was the receptionist. He..." She rolls her eyes at herself. "He sent me down there. His voice... it made me want to believe him. It was like..." She stops, eyes widening slightly. "Like he was hypnotic."

So, not good then. Wait, though- "He?"

"Yeah." Jody shrugs slightly. "Well?"

Sam points wordlessly. A _female_ nurse is on the reception.

"Crap," says Jody.

"Yeah," says Sam grimly. "I think someone wanted you to go down there. You said you were investigating some missing patients?"

"_Crap_," she breathes. "He seemed pretty eager to get rid of me. Made up some bull about checking themselves out."

"Ok. What did he look like?"

"Normal, I guess? He was kind of... unshaven." There's a blurred spot in her memory. "Sticky-up hair. He was wearing a suit, I think... it's hard to remember..."

Sam remembers something. Hadn't Cas mentioned Lucifer going after his vessel? Oh, crap. If Lucifer's _here, _with some new monster, then they're in such deep trouble that they might never see the sun again. Literally.

Jody goes still, looking somewhere over Sam's shoulder. He looks round, following her line of sight and- oh, crap. Unmistakably, that's an angel statue tucked discreetly into a corner. It's hands are pressed against its face, but an eye is peeping out above its fingers and it's watching them. Definitely.

"We've got to get Bobby," Sam says, quiet and urgent. "There might be more. You should go."

"Hell no," she says determinedly. "You're not the only one who cares about him. And I owe those creepy bastards."

Somewhat reluctantly, Sam nods.

"Sam's takin' his sweet time," says Bobby. Dean doesn't say anything, expressionless. He does not like hospitals. Too many people who can't fight back. Like an all-you-can-eat monster buffet, guaranteed no hunters. Oh, and did he mention it's the goddamn _Apocalypse_?

Somewhere close, there's a scream. Dean is on his feet in an instant and heading for the door, before he stops and looks back at Bobby.

"You coming, Ironsides?"

Bobby rolls his eyes. "What d'you think, Einstein?"

"Sor_ry_. Just asking." He grins and with that he's gone.

Dean straight away relaxes into the familiar rhythm of the hunt, pounding feet and heart, senses hyper-alert. The scream comes again, a couple of doors down, and-

He's abruptly jerked back, something's caught onto his jacket, and he goes to wriggle out of it-

Cold stone fingers close around Dean's throat.

**A/N - **I'm sorry. I am so sorry. But I can never resist a good cliffhanger. ^^ Reviews still love?


	4. Dark

**A/N – **Yeah, this one got away from me a little. But I couldn't wait for my babies to meet...

**Central London**

**May 2009**

Mycroft Holmes, outwardly at least, is perfectly composed. He is not panicking about the escape of a maximum security prisoner from a UNIT facility. He is not dwelling on the reputation of said prisoner: a broken genius, the most powerful and ancient being in all the universe, one-time saviour of the Earth. And he is _certainly _not contemplating sending a small thermonuclear warhead to destroy the headquarters of UNIT once and for all, because that would be childish and petty and something Sherlock would do.

No. Mycroft Holmes is calm and collected.

Until, of course, a police report is laid quietly on his desk. Three dead bodies, one apparently torn to shreds by some gigantic beast. Now, ordinarily Mycroft would pay this no heed. Let the hunters deal with it. But there is a note scrawled across the bottom of the report in the familiar handwriting of a certain DI.

Sherlock was at the crime scene.

When Mycroft Holmes is angry, he does not shout or shoot walls. Instead, he summons his assistant – she's going by the name Medea today – and informs her that he would like to see Greg Lestrade. Immediately.

Medea leaves hurriedly. She knows Mycroft well enough not to envy Greg Lestrade one bit.

**16th May**

**The Beast of Brixton**

Between Afghanistan and working with Sherlock, I thought I'd seen it all. I thought nothing would shock me. But today, I was proved wrong.

DI Lestrade from Scotland Yard called Sherlock really early in the morning, which is never a good sign. He didn't give any details, just that it was a triple murder, and said we'd have to see the crime scene ourselves. Sherlock, of course, knew that it was something unusual and dragged me straight out of the door and into a taxi.

'Unusual' turned out to be an understatement. I'd never seen anything like it in my life. The alley where we found the bodies was covered in blood. Literally. It was dripping off the walls. Two of the victims had died of gunshots to the head, and the third... well, they'd been torn to shreds. That's the only way to describe it.

But it got weirder. Sherlock saw immediately there was too much blood, but he didn't have any idea what it could mean. I examined the bullet wounds, and that was odd too – there were burns, electrical burns, but Sherlock said the bullets were from an old revolver.

The Sherlock looked at the remains of the third victim. Somehow he deduced that if it was an animal, the animal would have to have been larger than a bear. He didn't know what to make of it – he said that it could have been a disguised attack by a human, but that didn't make sense.

And that wasn't the end of it. By looking at footprints in the blood, Sherlock deduced that a group of people followed the killer into the alley, and two made it out alive. Which still left three missing bodies, a man with a gun, and, apparently, a huge, horrible monster on the loose.

Needless to say, Sherlock was baffled. He was in his mind palace the whole ride back to Baker Street, and all he could do after that was have his homeless network look out for the survivors. It was unnerving to see him like that – so completely... out of his depth, almost. Though I doubt he'd agree, somehow.

As for me, I was just a bit scared by the whole thing. Even if there is a rational explanation, it just shows that humans are capable of the most awful things. Someone said it: "Hell is empty, and all the devils are here." I don't remember who said it. But after today, I can believe it.

Not to mention bringing back memories of the Baskerville thing. Even if the hound was a hallucination, it was still terrifying to think that such things exist. And I'm glad they don't.

I'll keep you posted on this case. It seems like it's going to be interesting...

**8 comments**

John, we're going back to the crime scene. I need to check something.

**Sherlock Holmes **16 May 14:42

Sherlock! You could let me finish my tea!

**John Watson **16 May 14:44

Tea's boring. This isn't. Coming?

**Sherlock Holmes **16 May 14:45

...Just let me get my coat.

**John Watson **16 May 14:47

I saw the bodies. Sherlock, you're so amazing to figure all that out!

**Molly Hooper **16 May 15:08

He's a freak. Why does no-one realise he's a freak?

**Sally Donovan **16 May 15:11

Hello darling. Have to hand it to you, this is compelling stuff – almost heartwarming. Not that I have a heart to warm. But you might want to be careful – prying eyes and all that. A lot of people want to kill me and this little tidbit is as good as sending up a smoke signal. Because now they know where you are, and what you're investigating, they know where to find me.

Well. I say people.

Just a friendly word of warning.

**[User Details Blocked - Enter Access Code To Reveal User Identity] [Access Code: _]**

*comment deleted*

**Harry Watson **16 May 15:32

After a change of clothes and the addition of a duffel bag full of weapons, the best friend of hunters everywhere, Lestrade tell himself he's ready. He's got a stake, silver and iron knives, a short and wickedly sharp machete, a plant mister full of holy water, and a shotgun loaded with cartridges of rock salt. The last two he isn't sure of – he's never actually fought a demon before, and from what he's heard they are formidable opponents, so why would salt do any damage?

Lestrade focuses on checking his gun, disassembling it with quick, practised movements. He does not remind himself of why he became a hunter in the first place. He does not think about the nightmares, his wife and daughter turned away from him and then the _creature, _all shark teeth and those _eyes-_

He snaps the gun back together. All in the past, he reminds himself brutally. It happened and you couldn't stop it and that's all there is. What hurts the most is the knowledge that with what he knows now he could stop it, could save her, like he has to save everyone else just to feel a little less empty-

_Stop._

It's not easy to track the surviving vamps – he assumes they're vamps, they tend to hunt in packs - back from the crime scene. All he has to work with is the occasional drop of blood, or a rusty handprint on a lamp post where one of them must have stumbled. In fact, it's nearly impossible, and Lestrade is soon on the point of giving up.

The street is dominated by a tower block under construction, a shell of scaffolding and plastic sheeting to keep out the wind. At street level, the site is sealed off behind a high wooden barrier plastered with posters.

He notices it without noticing; there's a door into the building site, chained and padlocked. Except it isn't - the chain is broken. Lestrade glances up and down the street, checking that he's alone, then walks over to the door. Every muscle tense, senses on hyper alert. A few drops of blood on the pavement, still liquid and bright. And something else, a dusting of yellow.

Lestrade swallows – demons _and _vampires – and makes up his mind. He needs to find out what's going on here, kill the vampires at the very least. So he pushes open the door – squeal of hinges, chain tapping against the wood – and steps into darkness.

Even with a torch, it's still too dark to see much besides indistinct shapes. He can hear a dull rumble from somewhere ahead. Probably a generator. The interior of the building is sectioned off with hanging sheets of plastic, beyond which only murky, watery shadows are visible.

A skitter of claws, loud and startling. Lestrade half-ducks and spins, gun leaping into his hands-

A rat. He laughs at himself and relaxes slightly. Just slightly, but it's enough to let him be knocked of his feet when the vampire erupts from its hiding place.

He hits the floor and skids, the vampire snarling and screeching into his face. Its face is torn open, three ragged claw marks from temple to jaw. Lestrade takes a deep breath and shoves the thing away from him, and to his shock it works. The vampire collapses and tries to drag itself away, making pitiful noises. Lestrade feels compassion for a moment – it looks so _young, _only a girl – before he remembers exactly what it is.

He kicks it onto its back and places a boot on its chest. He can see it won't last long, not with injuries like that.

"Who did this?" He keeps his voice harsh and loud. "What did it?"

The vampire cringes away slightly.

"There was a man..." Her- _its- _voice is weak and torn. "He had a gun. We laughed at him, but he killed Becky and Matt." Blood suddenly trickles over her lip. "He smelled _so good..._"

"What else?"

"He wasn't-" She coughs, and Lestrade catches a glimpse of sharp white teeth. "He wasn't alone."

"Yeah? What else was with him?" Lestrade isn't, absolutely is _not_, feeling the beginnings of sympathy, because he's a hunter and this is a fucking _vampire _bleeding to death in front of him.

"We couldn't see it. I- I think it killed everyone except me and Adam. We heard it-" She closes her eyes. "I heard it... eating..."

"You mean- it was _invisible_?"

The vampire nods feebly. Lestrade looks down at her- at it, _it_- and knows he doesn't have a choice. He takes the machete from his bag and holds it up so the vampire can see it. There's no fear in her eyes, just mute acceptance. Lestrade closes his eyes briefly and takes the vampire's head off with one swift, clinical stroke. Blood spurts up the blade and speckles his face.

He finds the second vampire – it's unconscious behind a heap of rubble – and gives it the same treatment. Then he wipes the blade of the machete with a sense of exhaustion, because they're _monsters_, but he saw the fear and hurt in that girl's eyes as it talked about its friends, and for a moment it could have been human. His daughter was the same age when-

Lestrade blinks as he steps into bright sunlight. And as a sleek black car draws up, he groans out loud. Because his day – impossibly – is about to get so much worse.

He slumps down into his seat, really not caring if he gets blood on the gleaming leather upholstery. There's a woman sat elegantly in the back seat, one leg crossed over the other, all glossy brown hair and creamy skin. Lestrade knows better than to talk to her – he remembers John complaining at length about his kidnapping by Mycroft – but he's going to try nonetheless.

"You're Anthea, right?"

She smiles a patronizing smile and doesn't look up from her Blackberry.

"Medea, actually."

"Oh." Lestrade shrugs. He's certain John called her Anthea. "Right. Don't suppose there's any point asking where I'm going?"

She looks up at him, almost pitying. "None at all."

The rest of the journey is spent in silence as the car glides through central London. Lestrade drifts, thinking about old hunts and old friends and trying _not_ to think about why Mycroft wants to see him. Eventually the car slows, and he looks out of the window at a Victorian building, blazing white in the sun. He goes to get out of the car, but 'Medea' puts a hand on his arm.

She hesitates for a moment. "He's not happy with you, Greg."

"I gathered."

"Just- don't say anything to... _worry_ him."

"All right." If anything, all this does is worry Lestrade further. He is uncomfortably aware of the fact that Mycroft could kill him quite easily and no-one would ask any questions.

Lestrade walks up the steps with some apprehension. A discreet brass plaque on the door reads, 'The Diogenes Club'. He reaches for the handle, only for the door to soundlessly swing open before him.

The interior is lavishly decorated and completely silent. Lestrade immediately feels out of place. Hell, he would've done even if he'd been dressed smartly and hadn't been covered in blood. The doorman points him up a broad, curved staircase without saying a word.

At the top of the stairs is another door, this one reading 'Strangers' Room'. Lestrade hesitates. Funny that a man in a suit should scare him more than, say, a werewolf. Or that bloody wraith, he still has nightmares about that one-

He opens the door, and there's Mycroft Holmes in an armchair, reading – oh, god – a police report.

"Do have a seat, Detective Inspector." Mycroft is smiling like a cat. Lestrade drops into the chair facing Mycroft with a sense of resignation. Here it comes...

"Can I offer you a drink? Scotch, perhaps?"

"No, thanks." Lestrade replies tersely. It's difficult enough talking to Mycroft sober, let alone with a head full of whiskey.

Mycroft holds up the report. "Most diverting reading, Detective Inspector." And isn't it funny how he can make that sound like a threat?

Lestrade doesn't say anything and concentrates on a spot just above and to the left of Mycroft's head. It's an approach that's worked in the past.

"A triple murder. Dreadful, really." He lays the report on the table beside him with an air of disdain. "But I suppose we look to you to keep the streets safe at night."

"Yes, sir." Lestrade does not shift his gaze from that spot.

"I understand that Sherlock was at the crime scene."

Lestrade pauses. "...Yes, sir." Damn it.

"Which intrigues me, because I seem to remember warning you, Detective Inspector, that if Sherlock was to become involved with the supernatural, there would be... repercussions. For all concerned."

Ok, and now Lestrade's _angry. _"So it's perfectly all right to send me to bloody Dartmoor when I'm on holiday because you _think _your brother's after a Black Dog, but when I ask him for help there's suddenly _repercussions_?"

Mycroft remains perfectly calm. "As a hunter, your job is to protect the populace from any supernatural threat."

"It wasn't even a supernatural thing! It was some bloody hallucinogenic gas, or something!"

"Nevertheless. You deliberately endangered Sherlock this morning."

"So you don't mind him going up against terrorists and criminal masterminds, but-"

"That is quite beside the point. If Sherlock were to discover the truth... well, I'm sure you can imagine."

"Anyway, what gives you the right to tell me what my job is? I don't have to do this, you know. I'm not your bloody terrier."

"And if it were not for my protection, you would be in prison for, among other charges, unlicensed possession of firearms, grave desecration, and multiple counts of murder."

Lestrade's expression freezes. "They're _monsters._" Fucking monsters, and he is _not _remembering that vampire girl, her eyes-

Mycroft appears utterly unconcerned. "Not to the police. The majority, anyway. To them, those vampires you so efficiently slaughtered this morning are no more than two murdered teenagers." He sighs at Lestrade's expression. "The point is, I need you to kill monsters, and you need me to ensure that you can continue to do so."

Lestrade knows he's backed into a corner, and he hates it. "Yes, sir."

"But rest assured that if you put Sherlock in danger again..." Mycroft doesn't finish the sentence. He doesn't really need to.

"Yes, sir. I understand."

"Do you? I'm so glad." Mycroft smiles that self-satisfied little smile. "Now, I'm sure you have people to save. Off you go."

The car is still waiting outside the club, and Mycroft's assistant – Medea, or Anthea, or whatever – smiles at him. Still patronizing, still doesn't quite reach her eyes.

"I'm to take you to home, then to Scotland Yard."

"Joy," mutters Lestrade, and gets in the car.

At his sparse little flat, he changes for work and wipes the blood from his face and hands. He can still smell it on his skin. Before he leaves, he tucks a gun and a flask of holy water into his jacket. Just in case.

Another short ride across London, and there's Scotland Yard. Sergeant Donovan is waiting for him. She does not look pleased.

"Where the hell have you been, sir?"

He keeps walking, crossing the lobby towards the lifts. "Busy."

"_Busy_? All morning? When you're got a _case_?"

"Yeah. Problem?"

"Yes, actually. The super wants to see you."

"Of course he does," mutters Lestrade. "It's that sort of day." He jabs the button to call the lift.

"Where are you going now? The super-"

"Can wait. Ok?"

Donovan gets a look on her face. It's the I'm-dealing-with-a-four-year-old look she normally reserves for Sherlock. Lestrade resolutely ignores it.

The lift pings and the doors glide open, and the fourth floor corridor is empty. There's nothing especially unusual about that, but if his day so far is anything to go by, there'll be a monster in his office or-

His office door is ajar. His _locked _office door. And the smudge of yellow on the carpet can't just be a coincidence.

"Sally," he says quietly, "go and... do something. Now."

She heads back down the corridor, a stormy look on her face. No doubt on her way to complain about him to Anderson.

Let her. As long as she's safe.

Lestrade slips the gun from his jacket – he doubts it'll do much good, but the weight of it in his hand is somewhat comforting. He quietly opens the door.

There's a man reclining in Lestrade's chair, feet up on the desk, going through his papers. He looks up at the slight sound.

"Ah, Detective Inspector. A pleasure to meet you at last." He smiles, and it's a smile Lestrade does not trust one bit. "The name's Crowley."

Lestrade doesn't move, the gun pointed at Crowley's head.

The demon – must be a demon, there was sulphur outside – sighs. "How sweet. That won't work on me." He waves a hand and the door closes. "We need to talk."

"You're a demon."

"Give the man a cigar."

"What the hell are you doing here?"

"Nothing to do with Hell, actually. I have a proposition for you."

"I'm not making a deal with some demon." Lestrade's voice is utterly devoid of emotion. "Get. Out."

"Make me." Crowley cocks his head to one side. "Well? No rock salt? No holy water to the face?" The demon grins. "I thought so."

Lestrade lowers the gun a little. "You killed those vampires."

"Yes. Well. Not just me. Snuggles helped."

The growl is pitched at the exact harmonic that causes small animals to flee, and it's coming from the corner of the office. It also manages to communicate the fact that humans are included in the 'small animals' category.

"...Snuggles."

"My hellhound. He's a big softy when you get to know him. Of course, most people don't get much further than 'who's a good abomination' before he tears their face off, but I'm working on that." Crowley leans back in the chair and looks infuriatingly smug.

"All right, but why? Why kill them?"

Crowley regards him with the darkest eyes Lestrade has ever seen – not demon dark, but a rich warm brown. Chocolate.

"Well, because of you."

"Me? I don't-"

"Look." The demon seems exasperated. "Embarrassing as it is, I need the help of a hunter. Killing the vampires was-" He spreads his hands. "Call it a goodwill gesture. Also got your attention quite nicely."

"Why do you need a hunter?"

"Because of this." Crowley lays a gun on the desk. An antique revolver. A pentacle carved into the wood of the handle. "This gun can kill anything."

"Anything like what?"

"Like the Devil."

"But you're a demon."

Crowley rolls his eyes. "Masterful deduction."

"I mean, why would _you_ want to kill the Devil?"

"Survival. It's the Apocalypse-"

"It's _what_?"

"-and when he's done turning this world into a charred desert, we're next."

Lestrade takes a breath and leans against the wall. "It's the Apocalypse."

"Yeah, Lucifer out of the box, the Four Horsemen, rivers of blood, the whole thing." Crowley looks slightly... not apologetic, but slightly uncomfortable. "Probably should have mentioned that before."

"Right. Right." Lestrade closes his eyes. Apocalypse. Right. "So, for whatever reason, you want to kill Satan and stop the Apocalypse – why do you need my help?"

"You're a good hunter. And my little plan, cunning as it is, has a much better chance of success if I have someone to back me up."

"Well, why not get a demon to do it?"

Crowley gives Lestrade an odd look. "They're demons."

"Fair point."

"So? Are you in?"

Lestrade considers his options. Trust a demon. Go up against the armies of Hell. Or let the world burn.

It's really not much of a choice.

"I'll do it." He wearily passes a hand over his eyes. "And God help me."

"Excellent." The demon swings his feet off the desk and stands, slipping his hands into his pockets. "Now – traditionally, a pact between a human and a demon is sealed with a kiss-"

"Bugger off."

Crowley smiles that annoyingly smug, I-know-something-you-don't smile. "Pleasure doing business with you, Gregory."

"Don't call me that."

Crowley makes a small noise of amusement. "I'll be in touch."

And then, quite suddenly, he's gone.

**A/N – **Cookies if you got the (admittedly quite obscure) Discworld references!


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